


Small Weird Loves

by doctor__idiot



Series: Tumblr Prompts [16]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Frotting, M/M, Pre-Series, Underage - Freeform, Very slightly dubious consent, Wincest Writing Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 09:19:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12230013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor__idiot/pseuds/doctor__idiot
Summary: Dean knows Sam loves him.





	Small Weird Loves

**Author's Note:**

> My September entry for the Wincest Writing Challenge on Tumblr. My prompt was: "The boy who loves you the wrong way is filthy."
> 
> The title is taken from the title of the Richard Siken poem that the prompt line is from.

Dean knows Sam loves him. It’s what keeps him going most days.

But it’s not a little brother’s love, it’s not pure, teenager-giddy and snot-nosed snark. It’s not even puppy love, a misguided temporary crush.

It’s the kind that burns bright and singes everything in its path. It’s angry, vicious jealousy when Dean so much as looks at someone else. Not flirting, just trying to be nice, but as soon as they’re past the reception, Sam slams him against the door of their room and gets into his face.

Dean pushes him away, “Jesus, Sammy, dad’ll be in any minute.”

Sam boy-growls, still not quite as tall as Dean but gaining both height and muscle, and on the next shove, Dean’s head bangs back against the wall.

“Every time,” Sam spits, “Just can’t control yourself, can you? Always gotta make pretty eyes at everything that’s got two legs. Why’re you such a slut, Dean?”

“That’s it.” Dean twists out of his grip, elbowing him in the side, and unlocks the door to the room. He throws his duffel bag onto the nearest bed. “You’re fucking out of line, Sam.”

Sam is fuming, his youthful features marred by the look of vitriol in his eyes. Narrow jaw set, he’s got his hands balled into fist, spine tight enough to snap.

Dean, loose-legged and annoyed, drops to the edge of the mattress, takes off his shoes. He runs a hand through his hair and over his face.

Sam is still standing there, fury radiating from him, heat and spice, and Dean looks up at him. “What?”

When he doesn’t get a response, he sighs. “Sam, I can’t help it that you get pissy every time I talk to someone. I just got a room key from her, for Christ’s sake.” He looks around. “Where the fuck’d dad get off to?”

Sam moves then, closer, and Dean thinks, _boy, here we go_ , but then Sam climbs into his lap, easy as you please, like he hasn’t done in about ten years, and it’s so vastly different now. He grabs Dean’s face, says, “I’m sorry, Dean, so sorry, God, I’m sorry,” and then he kisses him and Dean doesn’t know if he’s apologizing for that or the anger.

Dean makes a noise he’s not exactly proud of and grabs on to Sam’s shoulders. Digs his fingers in, then pushes him away so hard Sam nearly topples backwards. Dean catches him by the front of his T-shirt.

“What the ever-loving _fuck_?”

Sam’s lips are set, his eyes wild, “Why do they get to have—Why can’t I have what they have?” he asks, all child-like insolence, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He’s still holding onto Sam’s shirt and now Sam’s fingers are curling around his forearms, an uncharacteristically hesitant touch. Innocence.

Dean stands up abruptly, knocking Sam off his thighs and onto the floor. Sam flails for a moment but rolls and springs back up, young reflexes and determination putting him back into Dean’s path.

He reaches for Dean and his intention isn’t clear but Dean reacts instinctively, grabs Sam’s wrist and twists it back onto his back, crowding him against the edge of the bed.

Sam gives a breathless laugh and Dean finds himself with his little brother pressed against his front, which only serves to make everything worse. He lets go of Sam as if burned, it almost feels like it, too, and he looks at the inside of his palm as if he’s expecting to find charred skin there. He wipes it against the fabric of his jeans.

Sam has fallen to the bed, grinning up at Dean, who still can’t seem to get his own legs to move. Sam wriggles slightly, and it almost passes as accidental, just getting comfortable, but Dean knows better now. His little brother, just shy of sixteen years old, is looking at him like he wants to eat him, like something out of a horror movie. Or a bad porno.

Like something Dean doesn’t want to think about ever again, but he can’t avert his eyes for some reason. Sam stretches before him, thin T-shirt riding up over his stomach, revealing smooth skin and sharp hipbones and Dean’s hands twitch.

“You—” he starts but Sam tugs him down, rolls them in a strange parody of a wrestling move that Dean fucking taught him, until he sits astride Dean’s hips.

“Don’t,” he says, shaking his head, hair flying, “Don’t take this away from me,” and what makes Dean freeze in his tracks is the realization that Sam is about to cry.

Helpless, Dean licks his lips, angles his hips in a move that isn’t even intentional but it makes Sam close his eyes and drop open his mouth and god, that’s beyond wrong, Dean can’t—

Sam’s palms slam into Dean’s chest as he bears down and they’re fully clothed, on a hick-town motel bed with their father likely to walk in on them any moment, and Dean still can’t fucking move. Except to meet Sam’s little hip-circles, denim chafing but neither of them caring, and before he knows it, his hands are cupped over those hipbones, calloused fingertips against hot skin.

Sam moans and Dean bites back a sob. He has the desire to curl up into a ball and now he’s the one who is seconds away from crying. Sam kisses his cheek, repeats, “I’m so sorry,” but he doesn’t stop and Dean doesn’t know how to.

He physically can’t move, or at least he thinks he can’t, until he hears heavy footfalls in the hallway, outside their door, and he throws Sam off him just as their father steps through the door.

John takes in their flushed faces and mutters something about unpacking instead of play-fighting, and Dean digs his knuckles into his eye sockets, mumbles back, “Yessir.”

Sam is kneeling next to the bed where he landed, brows drawn tight and his eyes intently focused on Dean. Stubborn.

Dean sighs and buckles up for a long, sleepless night.


End file.
